


mimosas, murder, and mayhem

by schism



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, M/M, a fix-it of sorts, mandatory brunch meeting: the remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-04-21 17:39:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14289975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schism/pseuds/schism
Summary: The Riddler isn't invited to the mandatory brunch meeting.He shows up anyway.





	1. Part I: Mimosas

**Author's Note:**

> the brunch scene was a) too damn short and b) lacking a certain green gentleman...  
> so i put together a little something something c:
> 
>  
> 
> enjoy!

Oswald should’ve known Jerome would insist on bringing his own staff.

Well, perhaps _staff_ is too kind a word for the band of somewhat formal-looking ex-Arkhamites… then again, he also knows pointing it out to Jerome is not worth losing a few fingers – or God knows what else – over. So, Oswald keeps his mouth shut, smiles, and plays the good host like Jerome wants him to. Even despite the horror show he can hear happening in the kitchen over… breakfast sausages?

It doesn’t matter.

The point is this: it’s not like Oswald has much of a say in the matter, in the end. Especially once Jerome’s guests start arriving, each with their own little personalized invitation – which are surprisingly tastefully done, all things considered, all matte black paper and intricate silver lettering.

Oswald has one of his own, somewhere in the pockets of his coat, and even though he didn't have much time to inspect it when it had been showed in his hands less than an hour ago, he knows it includes the phrase _join us for mimosas, murder, and mayhem!_ which, although grammatically sound, doesn’t inspire much confidence. Part of him hopes that if Jerome does intend to kill someone at brunch, he’ll have half the mind left to not do it over the nice tablecloth.

In any case, Jerome refuses to tell him how many people are invited (if he even knows himself, which Oswald has more than a few doubts about), but the first to arrive is Victor Fries – he's fifteen minutes early, clad in his customary refrigeration suit and looking like he’d taken a bite out of an especially sour lemon before stepping in the house.

Still, Oswald knows he has to play along with Jerome’s delusion for the time being, so he plasters on a smile, greets Fries, and doesn’t stab him when the man asks how the ice had been.

Jerome shakes Fries’s hand for an obscenely long time before skipping over to Oswald and asking him whether the building has validated parking.

There’s the sound of shattering glass from somewhere in the kitchen, and the distinct smell of something burning.

Oswald can feel a particularly nasty migraine building up somewhere behind his left eye.

A few minutes later, a brisk knocking signals the next guest. He opens the door to find Firefly looking very pleased with herself. Her expression wavers for a moment when she sees him, but she recovers quickly and steps in before he can invite her to do so.

Oswald smiles cordially even though he’d rather prefer to slam the door shut in her face.

Scarecrow shows up soon after, dark-rimmed eyes blank behind his mask – or whatever the horrendous thing covering his head is supposed to be. Oswald does his best not to flinch when the man reaches out a thin, gloved hand for a surprisingly steady handshake, and doesn’t think about where that hand, or the glove covering it, may have been.

He sincerely doubts Scarecrow is on friendly terms with the washing machine, given the state of his… outfit, if it can be called that, since it’s little better than rags.

“How do you do,” he says almost mechanically, the smile on his face starting to feel more and more like makeshift armor with every passing second.

“Frightfully,” Scarecrow replies, rolling the r the slightest bit, his dark eyes void of anything save for a hint of cold, calculating intelligence.

Oswald’s building migraine becomes a thriving one. 

Scarecrow takes his place at the table beside Firefly.

Oswald turns back towards the door and steals a glance at his pocket watch, ignoring the dull throbbing pain starting to build up in his bad leg.

It’s almost time.

Jerome shuffles over, all nervous energy and mania. “Mr. Tetch will be a little bit late,” he says. “It’s time. Have a seat, Mr. Oswald.”

An _or else_ is heavily implied somewhere behind that grotesque grin.

So, Oswald smiles politely and takes a seat at the end of the table, if only to avoid having to look at those scars so closely for any longer.

Jerome plops down at the other end of the table a few moments later, rubbing his gloved hands together.

There are tiny flecks of blood on his cuffs.

The makeshift staff emerge from the kitchen with their platters and pitchers.

One of them pours water into Oswald’s glass with a shaky hand, narrowly missing his sleeve.

Another stabs at a sausage with tongs before giving up and pushing it off the platter and onto the plate in front of Fries with an even shakier hand.

The hiss of the refrigeration suit is almost deafening – as is the heavy breathing coming from Scarecrow’s direction.

Oswald fights the urge to rub his temples, curling his fingers into fists and keeping his expression as neutral as he can.

Jerome hits the leg of his still-empty glass with a fork once, twice, thrice. “Hear ye, hear ye,” he says as Oswald does his best to ignore Scarecrow’s blank staring. “I’d like to officially welcome you to–“

A series of sharp, loud knocks at the door cuts him off.

Jerome pauses for a moment before addressing the staff member incapable of using tongs. “Carl,” he says, brow furrowed, head cocked slightly to the left. “Go see who it is.”

The man in question – who is named _Carl_ , of all things – starts before nodding shakily, visibly shivering as he makes his way to the door.

It takes him a moment to realize he can’t open it while holding the tongs and the platter, so he puts the tongs on the platter, the fat from the sausages glimmering on the metal.

Finally, Carl manages to open the door.

Oswald’s migraine goes a step beyond thriving and up to downright blooming.

It’s Ed.

Or, _the Riddler_ , as he keeps insisting, but besides a moment of weakness before he’d gotten out of the asylum, Oswald’s had little initiative or desire to acknowledge, much less use, the new name.

“I hope I’m not too late for brunch,” Ed says, smiling benignly past Carl’s shoulder in the direction of the table. “I heard there were going to be mimosas.”

How he knew that is anyone’s guess.

Jerome stays quiet for a beat, eyes wide and blank, before hopping up and bounding over to the door. Carl has the presence of mind to step away, leaving Ed alone in the doorway.

“And who might you be?” Jerome asks, hands clasped behind his back and face awfully close to Ed’s.

Ed, bless him, manages to keep his composure. “You can call me Riddler,” he says, doing the best approximation of a small bow he can in such close quarters.

Oswald has to actively fight the urge to roll his eyes.

 _Of course_ he’s going to push it… although, to be fair, Oswald isn’t particularly surprised.

“Our little event is invite-only. Where’s _your_ invitation, Riddler?” Jerome asks, and Oswald can almost hear the manic grin that must be on his face.

Ed only smiles kindly in response, even though his eyes behind the glasses are like shards of metal. “A question of my own, if I may, Mr. Valeska,” he says, and Jerome… twitches?

Whatever it may be, he must have given some sort of indication to continue, because Ed says, “Where’s _yours_?”

There’s a moment of silence.

Fries glances at Scarecrow.

Scarecrow glances at Firefly.

Firefly glances at Oswald.

Oswald tries his best to keep his eyes open and his expression vacant, bracing himself.

Carl, the poor soul, still stuck standing near the door and in what might very well become the blast zone, looks like he’s going to cry.

Then, much to everyone’s surprise, Jerome starts laughing. “You got me there,” he huffs between peals of laughter, clutching Ed’s shoulder tight enough that the fabric creases between his fingers. “Oh, I _like_ you. Get this man a place setting, people! And a mimosa.”

It takes a moment before anyone can react.

The makeshift staff scramble to fulfill the request, setting up another place at the table… on Jerome’s left hand, while one runs off to the kitchen, presumably to fetch – or to attempt to make, more likely – the mimosa.

“Make that two,” Oswald tells the woman as she passes by, before turning back to the disaster in the making at the doorway.

Ed, for his part, looks serene, the only hint of his displeasure visible in the slight downward curl of his lip. To his credit, though, it’s mostly undetectable – at least for those who don’t know what to look for.

Oswald watches and waits for the inevitable implosion.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, the wait staff somehow manage to get the place setting done in under a minute, and Jerome returns to the table with Ed in tow.

Once they’re settled, he stares at his glass for a moment. “Where was I?” he asks quietly, a rhetorical question if Oswald’s ever heard one. “Ah yes. I'd like to officially welcome you all to our first ever mandatory brunch meeting.”

He pauses for a second, probably for dramatic effect, grinning – well, baring his teeth, more like.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ed glances at Oswald.

Oswald shakes his head minutely in response, hoping that Ed will get the message.

_Not now._

Jerome, blissfully unaware of the wordless conversation, continues. “Now, I know what you're all thinking,” he says, “Why have I gathered this Legion of Horribles?”

He pauses again, glancing around the room for a moment. “That has a nice ring to it,” he says before turning to one of the battered-looking members of the wait staff. “Write that down, will ya?”

The man fumbles for a moment, patting at his collar as if there’s a notepad hidden there.

Oswald does his best to ignore it.

“Well, back when I was in Arkham, I came up with a plan to turn this city into a madhouse,” Jerome continues. “And now I’m on the cusp of making that happen. But I need help from all of–“

Fries has raised a hand, Oswald notices.

He really needs to pay better attention to his surroundings.

A mistake could very well end in… well, if not death then grievous bodily harm at the very least.

“Put all questions on ice until the end,” Jerome is telling Fries, who frowns ever so slightly before putting his hand down. “ _Danke, schön_. Mr. Oswald,” he continues, turning those unnerving eyes and that unnerving face towards him. “Thank you for doing your part in hosting us today.”

Oswald does his best approximation of a smile. “Anything for an old friend,” he says, and he can see Ed shift just the slightest bit in his seat.

He really doesn’t have time for this.

Meanwhile, Jerome turns to Scarecrow next, enquiring about the state of… “you know what”, whatever that may be, and Oswald has a strong feeling he’s being kept in the dark, intentionally so. A punishment of sorts, then, for refusing to join Jerome’s little escape gang.

He can only hope it doesn’t come back to bite him in the end – although, to be fair, it seems like it already has.

“It’s coming along _dread_ fully,” Scarecrow replies.

Oswald fights another strong urge to roll his eyes when he sees a spark of curiosity on Ed’s face.

Jerome grins, seeming to share Ed’s appreciation. “Ooh, _pun_ -worthy. Excellent,” he says before turning to Fries once more. “Fries. Ice Man. You’re a science guy. We're gonna need a lab, a big one.”

Fries stays quiet for a moment before shrugging nonchalantly. “Easy enough.”

“Mm. Now, all we need is for Mr. Tetch to return with some very important information and–“ Jerome cuts himself off by loudly hitting his hand against the table. “ _Use the tongs, Carl!_ ”

Oswald glances at the man in question, who seems to have been attempting to serve Firefly her sausage by hand.

Carl whimpers and grabs the tongs off the platter to hold them up for Jerome to see before retreating.

 _Smart move_ , Oswald thinks.

Finally, Firefly speaks up. “You still haven’t told us how you're going to take over the underworld,” she says, seemingly unaware that for someone like Jerome, taking over the underworld means thinking small.

“Who says I want to do that? I'm an artist. I just want to paint the town crazy. Once that happens, I could care less how you Horribles rip the city apart,” Jerome says, and even though the words don’t come as a surprise, there’s still a twinge of regret somewhere deep in Oswald’s chest.

Everything he’s worked for, everything he’s sacrificed for the city, for his empire…

If Jerome succeeds, it’ll all have been for nothing.

Firefly, however, seems pleased with the answer. “I’m in,” she says, glancing at each of them in turn as if daring anyone to object. “Let’s do this.”

Jerome huffs. “Not yet,” he says, elbows set firmly on the table and his hands threaded in front of him like a mouse trap. “Nothing can happen until we have our one last essential ingredient.”

The door opens.

“The one thing that'll tie it all together.”

Jervis Tetch steps into the room, looking suspiciously pleased with himself.

The sole female staff member finally returns from the kitchen with two glasses of… something. She sets one of the glasses down near Oswald, taking the other to Ed.

Closer inspection reveals that the liquid is far greener than any decent mimosa has a right to be.

It’s also in the completely wrong type of glass.

Out of the corner of his eye, Oswald can see Ed staring at his own drink with a mixture of disgust and fascination.

“Hey, I wanted a drink too,” Firefly says, unwittingly giving him the perfect excuse.

Further helping are the mumbles of agreement from the rest of the group.

“Jerome, if I may,” Oswald says, turning his gaze away from the abomination in a glass in front of him and towards the other end of the table. “Mimosas _were_ promised on the invitation. This–“ he gestures to the sorry excuse of a drink without forcing himself to look at it again– “is unacceptable. As the… _host_ of this little gathering, I feel it is my obligation to correct this misstep. Do you mind?”

He just hopes Ed gets the message.

It’s a gamble in any case, not accounting how much Jerome might know of what’s going on between them – and while Oswald prays for the best, he needs to be ready for the worse.

Jerome, for his part, looks pensive for a moment before shrugging. “Alright.”

Beside him, Ed perks up the slightest bit. “I can assist,” he says, keeping his tone even and his expression blank. “He can’t carry them all back by himself.”

Jerome looks surprised for a moment as if he’d forgotten Ed was even there. “Fine. You two, get it done, then,” he says before turning to the rest of the group. “Mimosas for all!”

There’s happy mumbling from around the table as Oswald smiles obligingly before getting up and heading to the kitchen with Ed following close behind.

The place looks like a battlefield. There’s something sticky and yellow dripping down from a few spots on the ceiling as well as pieces of scorched toast scattered over the countertops.

 _It doesn’t matter_ , Oswald tells himself quietly. _It doesn’t matter._

He turns on his heel to face Ed. “What the hell were you thinking?” he hisses quietly, feeling some of the pressure in his head alleviate by being able to voice even a fraction of the mounting panic in his chest. “Why are you here?”

“I really wanted a mimosa,” Ed replies equally quietly, and Oswald has to push down the urge to kick him.

“Don’t try to lie to me. You showing up here unannounced wasn’t part of the plan and you know it as well as I do.”

“Better, actually,” Ed says, looking infuriatingly smug. “Anyway, I’ve got a riddle for you: what has no hands but might knock on your door, and you better open up if it does?”

Whatever it is, it does little to alleviate Oswald’s migraine. “I’ve got far more important things to worry about right now, Ed,” he says, turning to go and dig out the orange juice from the fridge. “Or did you forget about the room full of lunatics who are all waiting for mimosas? Fetch the champagne from the pantry, will you.”

“The answer is _opportunity_ ,” Ed says, a hint of disappointment in his voice, before going to do what was asked of him for once.

Oswald retrieves the glasses – the _correct_ ones – in the meanwhile. “I fail to see how that’s relevant,” he says once Ed gets back and they start a little assembly line for the seven mimosas they need to fix up before anyone gets suspicious of how long they’re taking.

Although, to be fair, it’s not very likely his guests are aware of how to _make_ a mimosa, but still… Oswald hasn’t managed to survive this long by placing all his bets on luck, after all.

“I do have to confess it wasn’t my intention to crash your brunch meeting, given that I didn’t know it was happening until what’s-his-face opened the door,” Ed says, carefully adding champagne into the orange juice Oswald has already halfway filled the glasses with. “I came here to extend an invitation of my own.”

He pauses, and while Oswald appreciates the dramatic effect, it’s not really helping his already frayed nerves. “An invitation?” he prompts when Ed doesn’t say anything further.

“Yes. To _The Riddle Factory_ ,” Ed replies - as if that phrase is supposed to make any sense. Seeing Oswald’s narrowed eyes, he elaborates. “It’s a little game I’m hosting in the Narrows,” he says, finishing up the last of the mimosas. “I think you’d enjoy it. Not as a contestant, of course… while the prizes are fabulous, the price for failure is, dare I say it, devilishly devious.”

In the span of the last half hour, Oswald has heard more than enough wordplay to last him the rest of the year.

Still, the prospect of seeing Ed perform, now that he’s back to his old ways, is… enticing.

“Alright,” he says after mulling it over for a moment. “I’ll be there.”

“It’s a date, then,” Ed says and is out of the kitchen with his share of the mimosas before Oswald even registers the words.

He stands there for a moment, and the air feels suspiciously thick in his lungs, even with the various offensive smells in the destroyed kitchen.

_It’s a date, then._

The clamor of excited voices from the other room bring him back to the present.

The drinks.

Right.


	2. Part II: Murder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a long time coming, but i finally got it done.  
> a massive thank you to everyone who spoke up and asked me to continue this story... without you, this chapter nor the one (hopefully) following it wouldn't exist anywhere other than as a vague blob somewhere in my mind.
> 
>  
> 
> p.s. what do you mean lee shut down the riddle factory? it didn't happen.

Looking back on it later, Oswald figures getting stuck on the blimp above Gotham River was a good thing.

In the moment, however…

In the moment, or to be more precise, a little while after the moment and once he’s screamed his throat hoarse, he does his best to figure out if there’s a parking setting somewhere on the console of the airship. Finding none at first glance, he decides he’ll have to land the damn thing somehow before he falls to his death – or is shot down by Jerome’s henchpeople.

Whatever comes first.

The point is, he needs to land the thing somehow, and the captain of the airship is sprawled on the floor, unconscious and about as useful as the words Jim had spoken on the phone three minutes ago.

_Sit tight, alright? Gotham thanks you._

Unbelievable.

Wait…

The phone.

Oswald’s hands shake as he tries to find the damn thing, his efforts finally rewarded half a minute later when he finds it on the floor a few feet away from the steering wheel. He goes through the list of contacts, most of them completely useless in his current predicament and therefore irrelevant. Now, if he could only remember what he’d named the…

There!

He selects the entry labelled _Idiot (emergency)_ and waits as the phone dials the number.

Ed promptly picks up on the third ring. “ _What happened?_ ” he asks, voice tinny over the line and yet… there’s still a little hint of worry; it’s sweet, really. “ _Why are you–_ “

“I don’t suppose you know how to land a blimp,” Oswald interjects before Ed’s finished speaking, the urgency of the situation starting to settle in as a glance out the window reveals he’s getting far too close to the mouth of the river and to the looming, dark expanse of the bay he knows to be somewhere beyond the lights of the city.

There’s silence on the other end of the line.

“Ed?” Oswald prompts, feeling the last shreds of patience and energy drift away from him much like the blimp itself is drifting further and further downriver and away from the city.

If he ends up over the bay, he’ll be in deep trouble.

“ _Give me a few minutes_ ,” is the curt reply from the other end and there’s a soft thud, most likely meaning Ed has set the phone down.

A small part of Oswald is relieved that he didn’t have to explain what had happened with the Legion – how he’d failed to do his part, for the sake of… _what_ , exactly?

The bigger part of him, however, is desperately trying to stay calm in the face of impending doom – so, he clutches the phone like a lifeline and hopes Ed hasn’t changed his mind about their alliance.

Fortunately, Ed seems to be keeping true to his word. At least for now, anyway. “ _Alright_ ,” he says a few minutes later.

“Well?”

“ _Where are you?_ ”

Oswald takes a deep breath. “I’m in a blimp above the city. I figured it was implied.”

“ _My question still stands_.”

“Over the river, then. It’s dark. I can’t see where exactly. Somewhere around the Narrows, I think.”

“ _Can you find a clear patch of land? Or perhaps a roof?_ ”

“A roof large enough to land a _blimp_ on? Sure, I’ll _definitely_ find that! In the _dark_! Floating in said _blimp_ over the _river_ with only a faint idea of how to even _steer_ the damn thing!”

“ _If you’d like to try your luck some more and land it on your own, be my guest_ ,” Ed replies sharply. “ _Goodbye_.”

“No! Wait. I… apologize.” After that, he can almost hear the smug smile on Ed’s face – but it’s a matter of life and death, so Oswald ignores it. “I think I can see a clear strip of beach a few miles up ahead. Is that good enough?”

“ _Well enough under the circumstances, I suppose. Get above it._ ”

Oswald does his best to steer the blimp towards the strip of land. It takes a little bit of trial and error, the airship teetering precariously a few times on the way, but his luck seems to hold – and, perhaps most importantly, he hasn’t fallen to his death yet.

The captain snores away happily on the floor, none the wiser as to their current perilous predicament.

“Okay, I’m there,” Oswald says once the blimp is, to the best of his knowledge, somewhere above the makeshift landing area. “Now what?”

“ _There should be a few levers on the console in front of you. Do you see them?_ ”

There are at least five that Oswald can see immediately, and he tells Ed so.

“ _Any labels?_ ”

Oswald rattles them off, squinting at the small letters and praying he’s not hallucinating or reading them wrong because of the dim lighting inside the blimp.

“ _That’s it_ ,” Ed says when Oswald reads the labels of two little levers on the left side of the control panel. “ _Flick them down._ ”

Ed better be right about this.

“One last thing,” Oswald says, eyeing the levers, considering his scant few options, “if I die tonight thanks to your advice, I swear I will haunt you for the rest of your life.”

With that, and before Ed can reply, he flicks the levers down.

The airship groans but thankfully starts descending at a reasonable pace.

Ed laughs on the other end of the line. “ _I wouldn’t expect anything else. However, since I’m not hearing you screaming, I’m assuming you remain among the living. For now, at least._ ”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. What now?”

“ _Now we wait_.”

Easier said than done, really, because Oswald would like nothing more than to be done with this entire ordeal, to go back home and crawl into bed and not get out until all of this has blown over.

Then again, if there’s one thing he’s never learned, it’s how to cut his losses.

Ed hums on the other end of the line, the melody thin and metallic over the phone but still, somehow, familiar.

“How long does this usually take?” Oswald asks after several minutes in silence have passed.

“ _There are plenty of variables, but with your impromptu emergency landing, I’d say another five minutes or so_.”

Another five minutes on board an airship he only vaguely knows how to steer with an unconscious, mind-controlled captain and an unreasonable amount of highly flammable, highly toxic laughing gas.

Great.

Oswald stares out of the window in silence for a few moments before the tension gets the best of him. “So, um,” he starts, but Ed interrupts him almost immediately.

“ _Have we really fallen to the level of inane small talk?_ ”

Oswald scoffs. “Well, unless you don’t want to talk about your… what did you call it… _Riddle Factory_? Love the name, by the way. Very pedestrian. Unless you don’t want to talk about that, we can both shut up, I guess.”

Once again, there’s silence on the other end of the line.

“ _It’s at the edge of the Narrows. Obviously, the name had to be pedestrian_ ,” Ed replies after a while.

It’s good to know Oswald can still get a rise out of him.

“And not because you simply couldn’t think of anything else?” he says, trying his best to keep from laughing. “But don’t get me wrong, I’m sure the whole affair is anything but boring, despite what the name might suggest.”

“ _And here I was, thinking you might enjoy seeing the glory of the_ _Wheel of Misfortune_. _After all, didn’t we agree on a visit?_ ”

Which…

To be fair, it _does_ sound intriguing – now that Ed is back to his old self for the most part, at least.

God knows Oswald has heard enough rap riddles to last him a lifetime and then some.

“Alright, I’ll bite. Can you come pick me up?” he ends up saying after a short deliberation. “I mean, I could probably fly there, but since I’m already landing…”

A quick glance reveals the ground is approaching fast.

Not long now.

And then he can get off this blimp and never have to fly anywhere ever again.

“ _I suppose Lila can keep an eye on things for a few minutes,_ ” Ed replies, and Oswald bites his tongue to keep himself from asking about her. “ _And as you of all people should know – penguins are flightless birds. I’ll be there shortly._ ”

Oswald allows himself a huff of laughter before disconnecting the call.

 

 

***

 

For all its faults, The Riddle Factory is…

It’s certainly _a lot_ – from the larger-than-life neon green question mark in the middle of the stage, to the oversized hourglass filled with green sand, to the fabled Wheel of Misfortune, to Ed’s green-clad person commandeering the attention of his audience with every move.

Ed…

Well. He’s certainly in his element, it seems, prancing around the stage with a manic glint in his eye as the people of the Narrows chant whatever he wants them to chant. Oswald never did think of him as much of a commanding presence, not the least when they first met, but…

Then again, the mousey, boring Ed Nygma he met in the GCPD all those years ago is long gone. In his place stands the Riddler, prompting Oswald to briefly consider the question of who else he has misjudged at first glance.

He doesn’t have much time (or desire, really, but that’s a different matter anyway) to consider it, however, because the first contestant of the night steps up, the worry clouding her eyes visible even to Oswald on the balcony.

“Our first brave contestant is Grace, who is currently studying marine biology at Gotham Gate College,” Ed says, and the crowd falls into a hush. “Tell us, Grace, what brings you to the Riddle Factory?”

“Times are… difficult,” she replies quietly, “I’m doing this for charity.”

“How noble,” Ed tells the crowd, although the condescension in his tone severely undercuts the compliment.

Grace swallows nervously, wringing her hands on the podium in front of her.

“For anyone who doesn’t know the rules,” Ed continues, turning away from her completely and facing the public, his eyes cast towards the balcony.

Even though Oswald is pretty sure the enormous spotlight next to him shouldn’t let Ed see him, it still seems as if Ed is looking right at him.

As if he instinctively knows where Oswald is in the room.

Flattering, really.

Ed pauses for a moment, most likely for dramatic effect, before he whirls on his heel and continues speaking, this time directed towards the crowd in front of him in the pit. “I ask a riddle.”

He whirls again, turning to Grace. “You answer it.” A pause before, “Answer correctly and you get to ask me a riddle in return.”

Finally, he turns back to his audience. “If you manage to get that far and give me a riddle I haven’t heard before, you win. And you win big. If not… well. We all know what happens then.”

The crowd howls in response as Lila draws attention to the Wheel of Misfortune with elaborate hand gestures.

Ed smiles. “Lila, the hourglass, please,” he says, and the woman decked out in a green showgirl-esque costume skips over to the hourglass. _She’s… attractive_ , Oswald thinks. _Objectively_.

As he looks at the red hair spilling out from under her ridiculous hat, he thinks about Ivy Pepper for the first time in months.

Whatever happened to her, anyway?

“Riddle me this,” Ed says meanwhile, whirling to face Grace and to commandeer Oswald’s attention once more. “I can bring tears to your eyes, reverse time, and resurrect the dead. I form in an instant and–“ he whirls once more, now looking right at the balcony… right at Oswald?– “I last a lifetime. What am I?”

At that, all thoughts of Ivy leave Oswald’s mind as quickly as they entered it.

At once, he’s back in a cramped apartment, the green light from the neon sign outside the window spilling in like oil over water.

Take-out.

A piano.

Blood, both his own and not.

Falling, falling, falling, all the while not realizing.

Not until it’s too late.

On the stage, Lila tips the hourglass.

The sand starts pouring at an alarming speed.

Grace looks even more worried than before, chewing her lip and mumbling to herself quietly.

Ed waits, patient as can be, as the hourglass pours, but there’s a manic glint in his eye.

 _He’s enjoying himself_ , Oswald realizes. _He loves this._

And, he must admit, it’s nice to see, despite everything. Or maybe because of everything. Who’s to say?

“Is it… love?” Grace asks quietly. At least, Oswald thinks she does; he’s never been very good at lip-reading.

“Once more for the crowd,” Ed tells her, pointedly turning his stage voice up to eleven.

The sand in the hourglass pools at the bottom.

Time’s up.

“L-love,” Grace replies shakily and flinches as Ed turns, grins and points his thumbs downward.

The ringing of the buzzer pierces through the room.

The crowd howls.

“The answer is a memory,” Ed says and even though it’s almost theatrically sharp, there’s a hint of a gentle _something_ somewhere beneath the words.

What that _something_ may be, however, is a completely different riddle. And, in any case, Oswald doesn’t have much time to think about it, because the crowd below him has started chanting ominously.

“Lila,” Ed says, calm as can be even as Oswald can see the nervous tremor running down his spine. “Spin the wheel.”

Lila does as she’s told, and the pointer lands on…

On what?

From this far away, it’s hard to tell.

Fortunately, Ed seems to have taken that into account as he shouts out, “Uh-oh! **_Fire ants in your pants!_** A rare outcome, I assure you, but nevertheless a classic!”

The crowd howls their enthusiasm, stomping their feet and… barking?

Whatever it is, they certainly seem to be enjoying themselves.

The same can’t be said for everyone; on the stage, Grace looks like she’s two seconds away from crying. Still, she must have realized that there’s no way out now, because she accepts her fate with surprising dignity as Ed’s goons hold her still, and she stumbles off the stage the second Ed decides she can go.

“Alright,” Ed says, turning back to the crowd without missing a beat once she’s gone. “Our second contestant tonight is a fine young man from right here in the Narrows. Give it up for Brainy!”

The crowd hoots half-heartedly.

A scrawny young man walks onto the stage. “It’s a thrill to be here, Mr. Riddler,” he says, leaning against the podium, confident as can be.

Ed smiles half-heartedly in response. “Let’s hope he lives up to his name,” he tells the audience, already pre-emptively shaking his head.

Brainy starts to say something, but Ed quickly cuts him off. “You know the rules, kid. So, riddle me this: neither bought nor sold but more valuable than gold, I am built but not by hand. What am I?”

On cue, Lila turns the hourglass over the moment Ed stops speaking.

The sand pours, unrelenting and unstoppable even as droplets of sweat appear on Brainy’s temple. He seems deep in thought – so deep in thought, in fact, that he doesn’t even notice that the hourglass runs out before he’s managed to come up with an answer.

Ed shakes his head, heartily this time. “What a shame. The wheel, Lila, if you please.”

“Wait!” Brainy shouts, staring at Ed with wide eyes. “Is it friendship?”

Ed pauses for a moment. Taking her cue from him, Lila pauses as well, one hand on the rim of the Wheel of Misfortune.

“Correct. Now, Brainy, if only you’d had better timing…” Ed says eventually, glancing up at the balcony for a split second before turning to look at Lila to give her the verdict.

The wheel spins.

Oswald’s heart races, not even remotely because he’s worried about its outcome.

A few seconds later, it surprises exactly no one when Brainy tries to make a run for it, and Ed’s goons catch him before he can even make it off the stage.

The wheel stops, finally, the arrow landing on the obscenely large-lettered **_Pulling fingernails off with a rusty spoon_**.

Ed grins, the spotlight glinting off his bared teeth.

“Lila, if you wouldn’t mind…”

Five minutes later, a dazed Brainy is dragged backstage, presumably to be set free to roam the streets of the city once more.

“Our final contestant for tonight is aptly named Daedalus,” Ed says after the goons have cleaned up most of the blood. “Will he find his way out of this maze? Let’s see.”

At this point, Lila gets the hourglass ready without needing to be told, carefully stepping over the small puddles of blood the clean-up goons missed.

“Riddle me this,” Ed says promptly, his energy seemingly unwavering even as the crowd has gotten the slightest bit quieter over the night’s progression, “I can’t be bought, but I can be stolen with a glance. I am worthless to one but priceless to two. What am I?”

He looks up at the balcony the moment he stops speaking.

The sand starts pouring.

There’s a very inconvenient lump in Oswald’s throat.

Daedalus shifts, his dreads brushing against his wrist as he pushes them off his face. “I’ve heard that one before.”

Ed bares his teeth under the guise of a smile. “Time’s a-ticking,” he says, watching the man with all the easy ferocity of a predator. “I suggest you use what’s left of it wisely.”

Somehow, Oswald thinks he’s not talking to the contestant.

“Love,” Daedalus blurts out a split second before the last of the sand reaches the bottom of the hourglass. “The answer is love.”

“Correct,” Ed says. The crowd is at a loss for any sort of reaction, dumb-founded and silent. “Your turn. Lila, the hourglass.”

The woman, who’d been frozen much as their audience, seems to shake it off and prepares herself to tip the hourglass once more.

Daedalus stammers for a few moments, not believing his luck, before he blurts out, “What do you call an underwater Italian restaurant?”

Lila gives the hourglass a nudge.

It’s Ed’s turn to be dumb-founded, it seems, as he stares at the man in front of him without any regard for the sand plummeting downwards in the hourglass.

Then, he turns to the audience and grins. “ _The Marinara Trench_ ,” he says, as the crowd waits in a hush.

Daedalus only manages to nod as the hourglass runs out.

Ed smiles benignly, a king handing over a reward to a lowly subject. “Congratulations,” he says, shaking Daedalus’ hand as Lila approaches them with the briefcase.

Moments later, the man stumbles off the stage, hugging the cash-filled briefcase to his chest.

“That does it for tonight’s show,” Ed says once he’s gone, looking somewhat deflated but delighted all the while still. “We’ll be back again next week, so be sure to contact Lila for a chance to win big at the next Riddle Factory event. Thank you and good night.”

Within a few minutes, the crowd is gone, the space returning to quiet and stillness.

Almost as if out of thin air, Ed appears at Oswald’s shoulder.

“Impressive,” Oswald says, letting Ed revel in the ambiguity for a moment before continuing. “Having two conversations at once while standing on a stage in front of a fickle crowd. Although I would’ve very much liked to see you try and staple a live barracuda to someone’s forehead, but all in good time, I suppose. The personal riddles were a nice touch, though.”

“A good riddle reveals the asker,” Ed replies quietly, taking a fraction of a step closer and nervously licking his lips. “To solve it is to solve the mystery of the person posing it.”

“In that case, you certainly live up to your name, old friend,” Oswald answers with a smile, finally turning to face him. “Or should I say _Riddler_?”

In the end, it doesn’t seem to matter, because he doesn’t get to say much after Ed closes the sliver of distance remaining between them.

 

***

 

They don’t find out about Jerome’s second untimely death before the next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my hat's off to you if you can guess who our cameo guest stars were c:


	3. Part III: Mayhem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! it's been... a long, long time. in the meanwhile i've gotten a degree and a summer job, so i apologize for the long delay with this last chapter.  
> hopefully, it's not as bad as i think it is. 
> 
> thank you all so much for reading and see you around the bend!
> 
> xx
> 
> minor edit 26/12/18: fixed a random incomplete sentence and a few dialogue tags.

In the extensive list of bad decisions that Oswald Cobblepot has made over the course of his life, underestimating Jeremiah Valeska is firmly in the top ten. In that same list and just as firmly is the decision to fall in love with Ed Nygma.

Then again, _that’s_ also in the top ten list of his best decisions.

Then again, _that_ wasn’t a decision at all – at least, not when it was only _falling_.

But _being_? _Being_ was – still is, if he’s honest – and _being,_ as it turns out, is something he can live with. Now more so than ever, even as bullets zip over their heads in an abandoned apartment complex somewhere in the city that seems both familiar and alien at the same time, even as every ragged breath Oswald draws could be his last.

Even as Barbara bares her perfect, pearly white teeth and fires her gun, Tabitha and Butch scrambling to pick up her slack like the good lackeys they are.

Even as Ed is but a few feet from him and yet impossibly far away on the other side of a whirlwind of bullets that might as well be an impenetrable wall for all Oswald can do about it now.

And Oswald bites his tongue and bides his time, waits until Jeremiah’s ridiculous group of worshippers turned foot soldiers is down; waits and pushes down the stubborn bubble of anger in his throat even as Butch grabs him by the collar and growls at him, waits because the real wait is almost over, and these idiots are none the wiser.

Oswald waits because Ed, too, knows only that which he needs to know and nothing more. But even more so because even though his expression is neutral, Ed’s eyes are glinting with barely-contained rage behind those glasses of his. Because he manages to stay still, if seething, even as Oswald slaps Butch’s grimy paws away and offers empty promises through gritted teeth, for once in his life doing what he’s supposed to.

Oswald waits because it’s about time he held all the cards – even if some of them haven’t played out the way they were supposed to.

Oswald waits because once they’re in the car, a sideways glance reveals Ed’s fingers twitching on his thigh, desperate to reach out and yet unable to, because Barbara is driving and theirs is a secret best kept safe for the time being.

Unlike most of Oswald’s other secrets, this one leaves a bittersweet taste in his mouth when Ed departs, leaving Oswald to carry the weight of the tail-end of the night by himself as he’d requested.

_All in due time_ , he reminds himself.

Because _being_ is something Oswald can live with, after all – because, for better or for worse, he doesn’t have a top ten list for stupid decisions.

Then again, an hour later, as he watches Hugo Strange fiddle around with the machine that’s pumping toxic sludge from and fresh blood into Butch’s gray and slovenly body, he thinks maybe he should.

 

***

 

Six hours or so later, Gotham City is cut off from the mainland – an unexpected but not entirely an unwelcome development, if the chips fall just right – and Butch Gilzean is dead once more after two gunshots and the delicious irony of perceived betrayal where there was no loyalty to start with.

Oswald thinks maybe he should feel sad about it, and yet, finds that any goodwill he might’ve felt towards the man who’d been his right hand once upon a time is long burned out, any remorse swiftly swallowed up by that particular kind of delectable glee that only happens after the fulfillment of a good long-term plan.

Yet another unexpected development, that – Oswald had figured there’d be at least something, some sort of feeling for the sake of old times, however long gone. An unceremonious end to an era: two bullets and he’s the only one left of Gotham’s yesterday, the sole, self-appointed heir of a dynasty carved from the flesh and blood of the city. Maroni, Fish, old Falcone – hell, even Gabe. And now Butch, the last tie left to times not worth remembering.

Because what had been doesn’t matter now: his mother’s ghost is finally laid to rest, and the only thing that matters right now is that, despite the spectacular wrench that Jerome’s death and Jeremiah’s subsequent debut have thrown in his plans, Oswald is unusually optimistic as he steps out of his car to weave his way through the side alleys leading to Ed’s new hideout.

The thing is, Oswald is unusually optimistic – right up until there’s an ominous rumbling sound coming seemingly from all around him and the shreds of orange blossoming just on the horizon that he manages to catch before the power goes out and the neighborhood around him plunges into darkness.

For a moment, he worries about his car.

For another, he wonders how he’ll find the doorway in the dark.

No use in standing around like an idiot, though – especially since a moment after he thinks that, a line of neon green arrows interspersed with the occasional graffiti question mark lights up, presumably leading towards the very place he needs to go.

Because, other than Ed, who else would bother with such a display?

So, he follows the arrows and makes a mental note to ask Ed about the backup generator he must’ve acquired and gotten to work for the lights to function during what seems like a Narrows-wide, if not city-wide, power outage from the lack of light pollution in the inky blackness of the sky above him. If the power outage stays, a generator could prove useful; the knowledge of where to acquire more with little effort and a significant profit margin even more so.

Oswald mulls it over as he walks and, despite the neon signs lighting his way, almost manages to walk into the door once he reaches it.

He tries it, but finds it locked, so, he knocks.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

A few seconds go by before Ed’s all-too-familiar voice answers. “What comes knocking on your door, and you’d better open up if it does?”

Oswald can’t help but scoff. A city-wide crisis and still he won’t give the riddles a rest. “It’s me, Ed,” he says, and a brief pause follows.

“Answer the riddle, Oswald,” is the reply from within.

Oswald rolls his eyes but does his best to keep his tone even. “Is this an appropriate time for riddles?”

“ _Anytime_ is an appropriate time for riddles. Speaking of which, you still owe me the answer.”

“Fine. The answer is ‘an opportunity’. I’ve heard it before. Can I come in now?”

The deadbolt clicks once, twice, thrice, and the door opens just a crack. Ed peers out, the neon light glinting off his glasses, thus concealing his eyes. “Did anyone follow you here?” he asks, as if Oswald was… well, not Oswald.

Yet another scoff escapes Oswald’s mouth before he can stop himself. “Please,” he says, rolling his eyes.

“I’d think under the circumstances it’s prudent to be careful, don’t you?” Ed replies patiently, opening the door a little wider so that Oswald can slip through before prudently locking it once more and motioning for Oswald to follow him deeper into the building.

“Right, because it’s not like you’re pointing out exactly where you live with neon green lights that are almost comically apropos your whole image. And what exactly do you mean by ‘the circumstances’, anyway?” Oswald asks in return, following as Ed leads him through the maze-like halls of his new hideout.

The walls are bathed in the same green light that’s spilling from the neon arrows outside, lending the area an almost luminescent quality.

“I know how to turn the lights off, Oswald; need I remind you that I’m in full control of my mental faculties? As for the circumstances… the city is in lockdown. As you well know, the bridges to the mainland are gone,” Ed says, and pauses for a moment to glance at Oswald out of the corner of his eye. “What I suspect you _don’t_ know is that the city has been declared a no-man’s-land by the government – at least according to the GCPD radio chatter,” he continues, allowing Oswald to catch up and adjusting his gait so they’re walking almost side by side, even though the narrowness of the hallway makes it more an awkward half-step shuffle with Oswald trailing behind than anything else.

There’s a brief pause before Ed adds, almost casually: “Whether the power outage in the Narrows is connected or simply a coincidence remains undecided for now, but I’m inclined to believe the timing is far too convenient for it to be the latter.”

It takes Oswald a moment to consider the implications. “If there’s one thing I know, it’s that nothing is a coincidence in this city,” he agrees after a moment, slowing to a stop as Ed pauses at yet another locked door. “The power being out makes looting easier, as far as I understand. Not that the lights in this city work properly at the best of times, nor that I have any personal experience, but still. I’d wager the real panic will set in in a few hours as the news reaches the public.”

Ed hums his agreement, brow furrowed, eyes locked on the key-ring as he fumbles with it. A moment later, it appears he’s found the right key, because he unlocks the door and holds it open for Oswald to reveal a large room set up much like Ed’s old apartment with the addition of a dozen or so television screens smack in the middle of it and rigged to show…

Stepping into the room bathed in green neon and the soft hum of flickering static like somewhere between a foggy memory and a half-forgotten dream, Oswald stares at the screens, trying to understand what he’s seeing. “That’s…”

“Gotham,” Ed finishes, walking over to the desk he’s set up near the screens to pick up something that looks like a mangled, handmade remote control. “It’s mostly strategically significant points in the city, plus a few extra areas of interest. At least they’re supposed to be – the current power outage hardly encourages surveillance efforts.”

He clicks the remote and the images change, and even through most of the screens are dark, there’s still enough screens working to get an idea of what’s going on; among the array of video feeds, Oswald recognizes the front of the GCPD headquarters, the staircase leading into the building that houses the new-old _Sirens_ club, and two different angles of city hall.

“You’ve been busy, I see,” Oswald says after a beat, still not quite done taking in the view. “Impressive.”

Ed basks in the compliment. “Getting access to the CCTV feeds was easy enough,” Ed replies, clicking the remote again and leaning against his desk. “Figuring out how to do it without leaving a trace, though… _that_ was a welcome challenge. Nothing I couldn’t handle, of course.”

“So it would seem,” Oswald replies, watching as foggy humanoid figures flit to and fro on the screens. “How long will the feeds stay up, though? If this power outage is here to stay… Well. City-wide video surveillance can’t exactly remain a priority.”

Ed’s smile falters the slightest bit, and if Oswald didn’t know him as well as he does, he wouldn’t have noticed at all. There’s an undercurrent of disappointment in Ed’s voice when he says, “No, not if the power doesn’t come back. Or, to be more precise, most of the feeds will be fine since the power outage seems to be a localized event. But my access to them is a different matter, unfortunately.”

He pauses for a moment, brow furrowed and teeth worrying at his lower lip as he clicks the remote again, this time revealing but a few active images amid screens filled with static.

Oswald’s fingers twitch.

“However, I have other means of acquiring information already set in place should the inevitable come to pass,” Ed continues, and Oswald initially catches about a third of it at best. “But nothing quite as convenient.”

“You’ve been busy, then,” he repeats after a moment, inviting himself to take a seat on the surprisingly nice sofa Ed has managed to obtain for the hideout-slash-headquarters.

“You know I like a good contingency plan,” Ed replies, sitting down beside him. “Besides, I’ve been entertaining the idea for years, and it seems I managed to see it through with excellent timing. As usual, of course.”

Oswald bites his tongue and lets him have it, even though part of him desperately wants to laugh. Ed, having excellent timing? Now there’s a paradox.

“Everything went well on your end, I expect?” Ed asks after another moment passes and Oswald still doesn’t speak, a tiny sliver of worry furrowing in between his brows.

It’s sweet, really.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Oswald replies, and lets the statement sit for a few moments. “But yes. For once, at least.”

Ed smiles again, softer this time. “I’m glad. Your death at Tabitha’s hand tonight would’ve been… inconvenient in the long run.”

And Oswald laughs at that, because after everything they’ve been through, it’s still hard to find the right words. Luckily, he’s learned to read between the lines with Ed at this point; then again, said understanding doesn’t mean Oswald will ignore the opportunity to tease him.

“How kind,” he says, watching as the tips of Ed’s ears flush red for a moment and stifling a laugh that’s bubbling in his throat. “You can do better than that, I hope.”

Ed bristles the slightest bit, but there’s no hint of anger in his expression. “If you die, I’ll kill you myself,” he says simply, eyes cautious behind the glasses as if expecting Oswald to lash out even though the words appear to carry a hint of humor – somewhere.

And if it were anyone else, maybe things would be different. But…

But what’s done is done. No use hiding it, or worse, pretending nothing happened. But, then again, there’s also no use in dwelling on it. Second, third, fourth chances – and Oswald knows to take any advantage he can get.

“Ah, but you’ve already done that. Well, tried to, at least. Third time’s the charm, though, isn’t it?” Oswald replies, and there’s a cold rush through his chest that quickly turns into delighted warmth as Ed’s long, thin fingers gently close around his wrist.

“I mean it, Oswald. If you are to die by anyone’s hand, I’d want it to be mine. If it ever comes to that,” he says and they’re quiet for a moment, contemplating the weight of the words and what lies behind both the words and behind themselves. “And I hope it doesn’t.”

From anyone else, a statement like that would result in some grievous bodily harm at best and a bullet between the eyes at worst on a bad day, but given that Oswald is, despite the uncertain nature of the city’s future, still in a good mood and that it’s Ed saying it, the words are more a compliment than anything else.

Because _being_ is a choice Oswald made a long time ago, a foolish risk in the hope of a better tomorrow, an investment with no iron-clad guarantee of a return. And yet…

And yet.

A promise is a promise.

Which is why he quietly says, “Likewise,” and wonders how they reached this point he’d never thought to see again, wonders why a death (un-?)threat from Ed sounds more and more like a declaration of love the more he mulls over Ed’s words, Ed’s inflection, Ed’s expression, Ed himself.

And Ed, for his part, smiles, again, unfettered even as the television screens one by one switch from cityscape to static, and says, “But before it comes to that… I seem to recall a few promises you still haven’t fulfilled.”

After that, the power outage and the riots he knows to be about to burst into life in the city around them are the last thing on Oswald’s mind.

At least for an hour or so, anyway – which is all they can afford.

For now, at least.

 

***

 

It takes them less than two days to gain a foothold in the city after the bridges are gone, and although Oswald has a hard time admitting it, Ed has played a major role in speeding up the process considerably.

Well, perhaps _process_ is much too lavish a word for what is turning out to be a turf war between the best that Gotham’s underworld has to offer. Which isn’t saying much, given that out of the scraps of Jerome’s little Legion of Horribles, Oswald is the only one with any experience in waging a turf war – or holding any turf for that matter.

Costumed freaks playing at being gangsters isn’t something Oswald had thought he’d ever see; then again, the past month has been full of surprises.

So much has changed, compared to where he’d been a year ago – and yet, so little.

Then again, there’s something almost comforting about it, even as the city falls to pieces around him, mending and un-mending, territories shifting and changing quickly enough that it would be hard to keep track of if he didn’t know what to look for. Because turf wars and rival factions are, at least, somewhat familiar ground, far more so than the unorganized chaos of Jerome’s brief reign.

And if there’s a nagging though at the back of his mind that his daily victories, much like the others he’s had, are not meant to last, he doesn’t listen to it.

Because, for better or for worse, the city is ripe for the picking, laid out at his feet, and he intends to take it the same way he’s done it once before: with Ed by his side and a price tag on the elaborate illusion of safety only Oswald Cobblepot can offer to the good people of Gotham. Because it doesn’t take them long to figure out who is better when Oswald’s people come knocking on their door – and the answer is always _the devil you know_.

And maybe there’s always something to be said about how everything turns out nothing like he’d expected, something about the curveballs that life throws at him at every turn much like in the soap operas his mother used to watch on the small television when he was younger. A lifetime ago, Ed had asked if he believed in fate – and, staring at a map of the city, looking for the best spot to make his next push for expansion with Ed by his side and Gotham at his feet, Oswald thinks he just might. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on tumblr @ bctrogues

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ bctrogues


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